Baby Love: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance by Vesper Vaughn

skin.
    Michael, my British assistant, wiped excess shaving lotion off of my skin with a steamed towel. “It might have been a little over-the-top, sir.” His white, fluffy eyebrows were raised pointedly.
    “I don’t really know how to do it any other way. Do you think it was the flowers? They shipped from New York this morning; the Kardashians love that fucking company, they’re all over Instagram all the time.”
    Michael sighed. “It might have been the spot-on bra size, sir that sent it over the top.”
    I bit my lip and shrugged. “Whatever. It’s a secret talent of mine. If she can’t handle it, not my fucking problem.”
    I stood up from the bathroom chair and checked my face in the mirror. “Perfect shave, Michael, as always.” I dropped my towel and hopped into the shower without waiting for the water to heat up. The icy blast of water hit my skin and I jumped up and down, howling with pleasure. I loved cold showers. They made me feel alive. “Let’s take the Land Rover tonight,” I shouted over the glass.
    Michael was cleaning up the shaving tools in the sink. “Are you certain you want me to drive you?” Michael asked.
    I lathered up my shampoo. “Why are you asking me that?”
    “Sir, it just seems like she would be more comfortable with you driving her. Less attention. Less…flashiness than having your personal butler shuttling you across the city.”
    “I’m taking her to Alinea tonight, Michael. If flashiness is a problem, it’s not only going to end with the ride over.” I finished rinsing my hair and shut off the water. I stepped out of the glass enclosure. Michael was waiting for me with a fresh towel. I stepped into it. “All women love flashiness. They say they don’t, but they do. Trust me, Michael.”
    Michael looked skeptical. “Whatever you say, sir.”
    ***
    An hour later, I was wearing my nicest suit and most expensive cologne, my dark curls slicked back. “How do I look?” I asked Michael from the back seat.
    He didn’t even glance in the mirror. “The hair is a little much. You look rather like Mr. Morehouse, if I’m being perfectly honest.”
    I shrugged as he pulled in front of a gorgeous townhouse. I peered out the windows. “Jesus, this place is nice. Didn’t expect her to live here.”
    Michael put the car into park, his gloved hands sliding up the emergency brake.
    “What are you waiting for? Go get her,” I said.
    “Sir, I really think that you should be the one to collect your date,” he intoned wearily.
    “Nah. You do it. I don’t want to scuff my shoes anyway. She’ll eat this shit up. British butler and everything. Trust me, Michael.”
    “Always, sir. I’m paid for it,” he replied drily. He stepped out of the car into the humid night air. I loved the light in Chicago in July. It seemed endless and such a contrast to the brutal winter with its salted, slushy streets and the iron blanket of grey skies.
    Michael walked up the neat brick steps and rapped the brass door knocker against the cheery red door. A few moments later I could just see Rachel’s auburn hair over Michael’s shoulder. Michael nodded and offered her his arm. She declined it and walked a few steps behind him. I saw the silky, slinky white dress I’d sent her flitting around the base of her alabaster thighs. When Michael stepped out of the way I saw she’d put on a thick, knobby wool grey sweater over the top of the dress. It clashed horribly with the rest of it.
    Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wore only a hint of makeup on her eyes. She looked incredible, minus the horrible sweater. Michael held the door open for her and she climbed in nervously, glancing at me and blushing slightly. “Hi,” she said shyly, pulling the hideous sweater down over her hands.
    “Hi yourself.” I wasn’t sure how long it had been since I’d made a woman blush. Of course, I was only ever around women whose profession was either public nudity on a stage or in front of a